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Six Word Memoir: Stumbles often. Lands on her feet.
Rambling Autiobiography
On my sister’s lap, cradled in her arms, I learned to love books. We began with Suess and meandered through Winnie the Pooh and Wonderland until I was too heavy to sit on her lap – so I snuggled beside her. As I grew older and she moved away, she would send me books, guiding me to solo adventures with Twain and Bronte. By the time I was on my own, my shelves were full of the worn pages of her much beloved books. Some are still there today. Now we are both adults, distanced by geography and busy lives. Still, when the phone rings and she greets me with Listen to this, I know I need to find a comfortable chair.
Camera Piece:
A loud hum fills the space around me, and a vibration, low and steady, reverberates through the black handrail of the concrete steps where I rest. Students mill about, talking, giggling, tripping as they check their phones, heads bowed. Feet shuffle, presumably, as they move from building to building. I sit in silence. My thoughts cocooned within a monotone roar. Not really thinking – void of thought - watching the ants frantically moving about below my feet. Wondering without pondering. Drifting from nothing to nothing and letting the silence wash over me. The jingling of keys and the screech of a gate swinging disrupts my thoughts momentarily, but the sound muffles and fades, engulfed by the machine’s whir, my constant companion, a blanket of white noise shielding me from distraction, drowning the static in my head. I wish I could take it with me – plug in earphones and let its sound obscure the lists, the criticism, the what-ifs, the worry.
Six Room Poem:
Decomposing log:
arm resting,
stretched across the
forest floor.
in a bed of fern
and blankets of falls
fallen leaves
and vines entwined
reaching for the sky
chipmunks’ playground –
they scurry across the worn wood,
eroding
reclaimed by the forest.
Worries reclaimed.
Light dances
a prism
greens – avocado, olive, emerald
and mushroom and musty browns
linger in the sunlight – spotlight
on busy ants marching
in thin shadows cast by saplings
pushing upwards.
Ideas spring.
The hum of a building
And whisper of cars along the loop road
form the static – barely heard from
crunching leaves and the rustle of a soft breeze build to crescendo
the chatter of birds darting in the trees’ canopy
A lunchtime cacophony.
Six Word Memoir: Stumbles often. Lands on her feet.
Rambling Autiobiography
On my sister’s lap, cradled in her arms, I learned to love books. We began with Suess and meandered through Winnie the Pooh and Wonderland until I was too heavy to sit on her lap – so I snuggled beside her. As I grew older and she moved away, she would send me books, guiding me to solo adventures with Twain and Bronte. By the time I was on my own, my shelves were full of the worn pages of her much beloved books. Some are still there today. Now we are both adults, distanced by geography and busy lives. Still, when the phone rings and she greets me with Listen to this, I know I need to find a comfortable chair.Camera Piece:
A loud hum fills the space around me, and a vibration, low and steady, reverberates through the black handrail of the concrete steps where I rest. Students mill about, talking, giggling, tripping as they check their phones, heads bowed. Feet shuffle, presumably, as they move from building to building. I sit in silence. My thoughts cocooned within a monotone roar. Not really thinking – void of thought - watching the ants frantically moving about below my feet. Wondering without pondering. Drifting from nothing to nothing and letting the silence wash over me. The jingling of keys and the screech of a gate swinging disrupts my thoughts momentarily, but the sound muffles and fades, engulfed by the machine’s whir, my constant companion, a blanket of white noise shielding me from distraction, drowning the static in my head. I wish I could take it with me – plug in earphones and let its sound obscure the lists, the criticism, the what-ifs, the worry.Six Room Poem:
Decomposing log:
arm resting,
stretched across the
forest floor.
in a bed of fern
and blankets of falls
fallen leaves
and vines entwined
reaching for the sky
chipmunks’ playground –
they scurry across the worn wood,
eroding
reclaimed by the forest.
Worries reclaimed.
Light dances
a prism
greens – avocado, olive, emerald
and mushroom and musty browns
linger in the sunlight – spotlight
on busy ants marching
in thin shadows cast by saplings
pushing upwards.
Ideas spring.
The hum of a building
And whisper of cars along the loop road
form the static – barely heard from
crunching leaves and the rustle of a soft breeze build to crescendo
the chatter of birds darting in the trees’ canopy
A lunchtime cacophony.
Join me in my solitude?